


Where we'll begin again

by girlwithabird42



Series: Haunted by American dreams [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Heartbreak, Pining, Unplanned Pregnancy, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwithabird42/pseuds/girlwithabird42
Summary: Arthur Morgan falls in love time and again to near the same tune.
Relationships: Eliza/Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, John Marston & Arthur Morgan, Mary Gillis Linton/Arthur Morgan
Series: Haunted by American dreams [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052933
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	Where we'll begin again

“Now son, why don’t you step outside while we speak to the gentleman?” Dutch signals to the door, Arthur’s presence as a silent strongman no longer required.

Arthur lets out an exhale of relief. It goes unnoticed by Dutch, but he could swear Hosea gives him a near imperceptible shake of the head in disapproval. _Try not to be so obvious, boy._

It’s not the first respectable town they’ve ever set foot in. It’s the sort of place that don’t need to put its industry on display, its money reflected in tidy storefronts and fresh-painted houses. No wonder Dutch and Hosea flocked to it like magpies. Arthur itches to get out.

He occupies his time with a cigarette until the gentle swish of a bustle on the sidewalk passes him.

“Ma’am,” Arthur tips his hat reflexively before returning to his meditations.

“Might I trouble you for one? A cigarette?” a soft voice inquires.

Arthur takes the woman in. Finely dressed, at least compared to his usual company. She has dark hair, neatly up under her poke bonnet, and large eyes, dangerous in their guileless way.

“Sure.” Unconsciously Arthur puts a second cigarette in his mouth to light it; he only notices the color rise in her cheeks as he strikes a match.

His hands look particularly rough passing the cigarette to her soft one.

“I’m much obliged Mr. –?”

“Morgan, ma’am.”

She holds her cigarette in an unpracticed way at odds with her polished appearance or perhaps entirely in line with it. Arthur is at a loss as to why she approached him and utterly tongue-tied, but that’s rather usual for him, as Hosea’s quick to point out.

“Are you here for business or pleasure Mr. Morgan?”

“Business ma’am.”

“Oh, it’s Mary. Mary Gillis, Mr. Morgan,” she says with a nervous laugh.

Somehow her smile takes off some of the veneer respectability, putting Arthur more at ease. He reckons they’re of an age, even if he’s seen more miles.

“Arthur.” His own name has never felt quite so foolish in his own mouth.

“Alright, Arthur.” It sounds different and new when she says it. “And how do you find our little hamlet?”

“It certainly has its charms. Until I hear from my associates, I am uncertain as to how long I’ll be enjoying them.” Arthur feels a grin at the corners of his mouth he can’t fight.

Miss Gillis – Mary’s eyes flick across the street and upon spotting an approaching figure, quickly puts her butt out with a delicate shoe.

“I hate to be rude, Mr. Morgan, but I must be going.”

He doesn’t blame her. Frankly, he’s surprised their conversation lasted as long as it did. Still.

“Maybe I’ll be seeing you around, Miss Gillis, should business be favorable.”

“I hope so. For you and your associates,” she adds as an afterthought before turning on her heel and hurrying the opposite way down the street.

Arthur’s still grinning when Dutch and Hosea finally emerge.

Dutch claps Arthur hard on the shoulder. “You’ve anticipated our good news. Put aside ambitions of the open prairie for now, Arthur. We’re town folk here.”

\----------

Mary Gillis isn’t one of Dutch’s girls, nor is she Hosea’s Bessie. Arthur ain’t quite sure what his intentions towards her are other than he likes stepping out with her.

He’s getting used to pomading his hair and he can mostly ignore Miss Grimshaw’s shrewd look when he asks her to press his shirts.

“What is it you do Arthur?” Mary asks.

Arthur has no answer at the ready and he’d rather not lie to her. “I’m afraid we’re reprobates, Mary. Outlaws here to swindle all good folk.”

She makes a small ‘oh’ in surprise, but composes herself quickly, hands tightening around his forearm. “You don’t seem capable of such things.”

“I can assure you, put me on the wrong side of things – and I usually am, I’m quite capable.”

Mary looks up at him with something like trust, “You can be better than that.”

God help him, he might believe her.

“Ain’t you one of Van der Linde’s?” someone spits at Arthur.

“What if I am?”

“We don’t like vermin here. Best watch your back.”

Arthur tries to hurry Mary along to find she’s shrunk herself from view, hiding in his shadow. He reports back to Dutch and Hosea at camp.

“So we’re cautious for now. Pack up and check in when things have blown over,” Dutch says. Arthur’s chest deflates.

“We’ll be back within a year,” Hosea says confidently.

“We’ll be back within a year,” Arthur reassures Mary on their last walk. Her lower lip quivers and he cannot bear it.

Without hesitation, he tilts her head up and kisses her. A moment passes before Mary goes from rigid in surprise to slack, wrapping her arms around Arthur’s neck.

In spite of himself, Arthur looks back as they ride away.

\----------

Letters are a poor substitute for the person.

Arthur steps away from camp first chance he can. Mary waits for him on the outskirts of town except she ain’t alone, a boy standing shoulder-high beside her.

“You the kid brother I heard about?”

Mary nudges him. “Jamie you’re being unpardonably rude.”

He sticks his hand out, all awkward and boney. “James Gillis, sir.”

Arthur chuckles, “I ain’t no sir, but pleasure all the same, James Gillis.”

“Arthur has a younger brother as well, Jamie, about your age. Perhaps you’ll meet one day.”

John could and would give this kid a walloping; Arthur bites his tongue.

“You coming to the house sometime, Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur’s ears go hot, “Oh I don’t know about that.”

The subject is avoided the rest of the afternoon, turning instead to Jamie’s schooling.

Time away from the encampment becomes commonplace. Dutch’s tone is unnervingly neutral when Arthur makes his excuses after conferring on robbing respectable folks. “I’ll see you in camp in the morning.”

Arthur’s not sure how much longer Dutch will allow him this.

Arthur and Mary take a stroll on the far side of the town pond, but Arthur still feels eyes on them. He finds John in the tall weeds, in spite of being told he was to stay in camp.

“That’s her?” John peers around Arthur’s side.

“Marston, you’re damned lucky Dutch don’t let Miss Grimshaw box your ears, though surely you deserve it,” he threatens before bribing John off with a cigarette.

“Sorry you had to see that,” Arthur makes his apologizes to Mary, even more wary about meeting her parents. At least he knows what his people are. He’ll do it for Mary though.

Mrs. Gillis is coldly indifferent which Arthur finds he can bear better than Mr. Gillis’s drunken barbs. All Mary can manage is a forlorn ‘oh daddy.’ Arthur balls his fists. _And they’re supposed to be the fine folk he aspires to._

“Arthur’s an excellent horseman. I thought he could give Jamie some instruction,” Mary says, trying to reclaim some dignity to the visit.

“A man’s responsible for his own son, not wandering vagabonds,” Mr. Gillis grumbles.

In spite of Gillis, Arthur takes Jamie to the local stables. Jamie’s biddable and his mount’s docile, making easy work for Arthur.

“I wouldn’t try anything wild, but you’ll serve,” he reassures the boy.

He watches Jamie brush down the horse from a distance. Mary rests her hand on top of his; Arthur doesn’t turn his attention to her.

“Jamie appreciated that –”

Mumbling, “Didn’t do it for him.”

“And I’m sorry.”

Sure that her brother isn’t watching, Arthur brings Mary’s hand to his lips. He can’t stay mad at her. _He is only human._

“Have you thought over your intentions with the girl?” Hosea inquires the evening before they’re off to rob some cattlemen blind.

“I don’t know about any intentions,” Arthur feigns dumb. “What’s Dutch say?”

“He doesn’t care for it, but if you leave to settle down, he won’t stop you either. It’s different, but who knows, maybe you’ll manage.”

Coming from Hosea, that means something.

Arthur excuses himself early that night. While there are quiet sounds of the camp bedding down, a few linger by the fire. Miss Grimshaw’s wrangled a scowling John, cutting his hair shorter than he cares for, but it’s Dutch Arthur watches, the new Miller occupying him.

Arthur’d bet his take the next day Dutch weren’t reading his book at all. Dutch was watching him too, the pair of them waiting for the other to do something.

\----------

Mary silently fumes as her father leaves to spend more of her mother’s money.

“Let’s get out of here,” Arthur quietly suggests; Mary nods in agreement.

It’s nothing to pick her up and put her on his horse. He waits for her to finish arranging her skirt under her legs, then wrap her arms around his waist, sending a low jolt through him.

“We’re gonna ride until we’re somewhere else. That alright?”

“Yes, Arthur.”

It’s almost dark when they finally stop.

“We ought to find a place for the night,” Mary says boldly; Arthur almost forgot she was the one who walked up to him.

He pays; the hotel clerk discreet enough to not question them with their lack of bags or rings.

Arthur considers what spot on the floor looks the most comfortable when Mary speaks up, biting her bottom lip and fingering the top button of her collar.

“Arthur I – what I mean to say is I want to share bed tonight.”

He blinks, not believing what he’s hearing, though everything in her manner confirms what she’s saying.

Mary can’t quite seem to decide if she wants him to watch her undress or not, peeling off every layer and contraption. Arthur does her the favor of undressing himself in front of her.

He could set her at ease, say it’s only flesh, but it’s not the time. He’s impossibly close to touching her, to finding out if the rest of her is as soft as her hands and face.

He pulls his hand back. “You certain about all this?”

“Yes, I just hope you don’t have any particular expectations.”

“Don’t worry on my account. I have some idea for the two of us.”

Mary furrows her brow. Arthur shouldn’t have said that.

He clears his throat, “Being that Dutch has a liberal definition of what a young man’s education ought to be.”

There’s no more discussion as Mary closes the distance between them. Arthur furthers them along, pressing her between himself and the mattress. She lets out a squeak of surprise, but does not stop him.

It’s an unfair comparison, other women and Mary. It’s the delicate things she does, the little things that undo him completely. Her face when he removes his head from between her legs alone is enough.

After, Arthur has a hand spanning one of her ribs, thumb running under her breast. Mary’s smile is small but it is warm.

He says the words that could very well damn him. “I love you, Mary.”

A pause. Her finger running along the edge of his jaw. A light kiss. “I love you too, Arthur.”

He is not damned.

\----------

The Van der Linde gang clears out. When Arthur can manage, he rides back to Mary.

They exchange letters. He sends drawings of flora and fauna; she sends a photograph of herself John rolls his eyes whenever Arthur pulls it out in the privacy of their tent.

It is a small package from Wheeler-Rawson that sends more of a thrill of anticipation through Arthur than anything else.

He gives the ring to Mary under an oak tree.

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

“I suppose I am.”

He slips it on her finger; she examines how it plays with the light. “Of course I can’t wear it out in public. Not yet at least.”

It stays on a ribbon around her neck, falling in the hollow between her breasts only for Arthur when they are alone.

“It’s not a proper engagement until we sit for a picture,” Mary insists.

It ain’t a proper engagement until she’s told her folks, but Arthur’s in no mood to argue with her.

The photo studio backdrops are as ridiculous as the ones when Arthur sat with Dutch and Hosea. He fears Mary will choose a silly one; she chooses the most muted one of the bunch. He doesn’t particularly care for how he looks but Mary is delighted by it and that’s enough for him.

Arthur’s not sure what he’s done to deserve his run of luck, but he won’t argue it. Dutch talks a lot about a man building something greater in America. Arthur knows what he’s got isn’t what Dutch had in mind, but he’s taking it.

\----------

Dinner at the Gillis home is an uncomfortably quiet affair. One really could hear a pin drop. Arthur would just as soon leave it that way until Mr. Gillis speaks up.

“Do you really think you’re good enough for my daughter, _Mr._ Morgan?”

Arthur’s at the end of his rope. He regularly deals with worse men than Gillis. Breaking his jaw would be so easy.

Coolly, “Good enough to be engaged, I reckon.”

The family at the table erupts. Arthur continues to eat as if nothing’s happened.

“Is it true, Mary?” her mother begs for a contradiction.

Mary’s posture goes even more rigid, putting her hand on top of Arthur’s. “Yes it is.”

“Get out of my house,” Gillis says in a dangerous low voice.

In spite of Hosea’s lamentations, Arthur’s exceptionally good at following orders. He pushes back from the table and excuses himself as the questioning turns on Jamie. Arthur doesn’t look back.

Alone on the front porch with a cigarette, the street is quiet, unlike the scene he left behind.

“Why’d you have to go and spoil the afternoon?” Mary says behind him. Arthur can hear the pout in her voice.

“You know very well I didn’t start it.” He turns to face her. “What do you want from me, Mary?”

“I want things to remain as they are, just a little while longer.”

“We’re supposed to be married. I’d say that’d change things.”

“Don’t be pigheaded Arthur, it doesn’t suit. You know what I mean.” Mary folds her arms across her chest as she steps up to stand beside him.

Arthur looks down at her. “Would you give them up?”

Still cross, “What?”

Arthur’s heart hammers in his chest. He can’t quite believe what he’s about to propose. “Run away with me. Tonight, if you’d like.”

Mary sighs, mournful. “They need me, Arthur. You see how Jamie gets on with them.”

It’s always her troubles, never his, unless of course he is the trouble.

“And I ain’t got responsibilities with Dutch?” he retorts, indignant.

Mary waves a dismissive hand. “They aren’t the same thing and you know it.”

No they ain’t. The inside of Arthur’s mouth tastes of bitter iron. “Perhaps it’d be better if I steered clear for a while.”

“That might be for the best,” she agrees.

Mary’s still on the porch when Arthur looks back. She looks lost and it goes straight to Arthur’s heart. She still loves him as he loves her. It just might not be enough.

\----------

Months go by with no word. Arthur writes a dozen letters he feeds to the fire, words insufficient to express what he feels.

He misses her. He loves her. He doesn’t want to say goodbye.

Her letter comes as a surprise.

_I need to see you. Yours, Mary_

Arthur rides as fast as he can manage without mussing his clothes on the journey. He spots her under the oak tree, looking as she always has: a balm for his soul.

“Arthur, please. Listen to me,” Mary says against his kiss, her hands gripping his arms trying to push back.

There’s a ring on her finger, not his. All feeling rushes out of Arthur, a dam broken. “I am a fool, Mary.”

“No Arthur, you’re not,” her face crumples. Part of him is still moved but he must not show it, not after what she’s done to him.

“I suppose this gentleman has your father’s approval.”

“Barry Linton’s a good man,” she says between sobs. Arthur doesn’t need convincing, about anyone’s a better man than him.

Heart leaden, “You deserve a good man, Mary.”

She buries her face in his chest, soaking the front of his shirt straight through. Arthur wonders if he’s turned to a pillar of salt, they’ve remained unmoved for so long.

Mary pulls away and tries to press his ring into his palm. “It was a gift. I can’t take it back.”

Mary only nods and sniffles in response.

Arthur has to go. He doesn’t want to. He suspects part of him never will.

As he mounts up, his parting words are cruel. “I wish you and your husband well, Mrs. Linton.”

He wonders if Mary went or stayed as he rode away, but he won’t look back.

Hosea greets Arthur when he returns to camp. He saw what was coming Arthur was too dense to realize. Bessie left Hosea with little fuss, but there must have been warning signs, now repeated for Arthur.

“I’m sorry, it’s a hell of a thing.”

Dutch offers Arthur a heavy pour of whiskey. “Son, women are the best of us –”

Arthur snorts.

“And the absolute worst.”

Arthur doesn’t stop at drinks with Dutch. He collects booze from others, drinking straight from the bottle.

“Geez boy, you gonna leave some for the rest of us?”

“Shut up, Uncle.” Arthur will take no lectures from the worst drunk among them.

He digs Mary’s letters out from his tent. They burn in such a satisfying way. Arthur almost pitches Mary’s picture, frame and all, with them. Something stays his hand and he lets it fall in the dirt by the fire. He soon joins it, passing out on the ground himself.

Arthur sees double when he wakes up and stumbles to the washbasin. Dunking his head under is the cold shock his body needs. He picks up Mary’s picture and dusts it off to return it to the tent.

John sits outside, already up and practicing his sums, diligent for the first time in his life. If Arthur didn’t know better, he’d say it looks like pity on the kid’s face.

“Do not ever make yourself stupid over a woman, John,” he says by way of advice.

“Okay, Arthur.”

Arthur collapses on his cot and sleeps ‘til noon.

\----------

The bender becomes something of Van der Linde gang legend. Even those weren’t there talk about Arthur Morgan getting his heart broke by some stuck-up lady. It makes enjoying any libations around the others rather difficult.

“It’s been what, a year?” Dutch asks, watching Annabelle swish past his tent.

 _Fourteen months._ “Near enough.”

“Go out and enjoy yourself for Christssake. You’re bringing everyone else low.”

It’s not a bad idea except the nearest town is dry, complete with a preacher shouting ‘sin and damnation’ in the thoroughfare. Arthur sighs and contents himself to a restaurant with gas lights and plush carpets.

The waitresses pass him by, swirls of austere black and starched white aprons. Arthur’s heart skips a beat when he swears he sees Mary, until the girl stops at his table.

She’s younger, but there are more lines of grief on her face, the kind born from hard living.

“Can I get you something mister?”

Arthur lingers over his meal, in no rush to head back, only bland stew to look forward to.

The girl’s also something of a conversationalist. “What brings you to town?”

Arthur shrugs, “Just passing through.

The girl sighs, “You and everyone else.”

“Don’t care for it here?”

“Oh it’s fine. This is a good job after all, but it’s exciting to imagine living out on the prairie, no one else around.”

“Some of us don’t have to imagine it. And actually, it ain’t quite like that.”

“You a cowboy?”

Arthur tells her the truth, to give her a moment of being swept up in a fantasy that don’t exist. “An outlaw.”

She smiles wide. “You shouldn’t tease. It’s near a sin and we wouldn’t want to disappoint the reverend outside.”

Arthur laughs in spite of himself. “No, that wouldn’t do, miss.”

“Oh please, it’s just Eliza.”

“Arthur.”

The second time he goes into town, he’s looking for a solid meal. Eliza’s his waitress again. She has a pleasant laugh that makes Arthur smile more than he has in a good long while.

The third time Arthur doesn’t make it as far as the restaurant. Eliza’s walking down the street quickly, pursued by another man.

“Leave me be, Fred!”

“I believe the lady wishes to left alone.”

“Mind your business, mister.”

Arthur drags Fred by the collar behind the hardware store. He doesn’t get far past breaking Fred’s nose before the idiot scarpers off, Eliza some twenty feet back watching anxiously.

He wraps his arm around her waist to lead her away, but it’s Eliza who pulls them both into an alley to kiss him.

Arthur hitches her skirt when she stays his hand. “Wait, not here.”

Her room is tidy and spare. Arthur has very little time to take it in as Eliza takes him to bed.

It’s not wide enough for the two of them so Eliza’s legs remain hooked around Arthur’s waist after. He wants to run his fingers through her dark hair, fanned out on the pillow, but contents himself to fingering the edge of her chemise.

“Why me?” he asks her, asks himself.

“You seemed so very lonely.”

It’s only after he leaves her Arthur realizes he could say the same for Eliza.

\----------

Back in the same part of the country, Pearson calls for a supply run before the gang moves on; Arthur must make it a quick trip. He has no notion of seeing Eliza again.

“Ma’am,” Arthur tips his hat, holding the general store door open for a woman in the family way. Then he really sees her face.

Eliza blanches and hurries away as fast as she can manage, encumbered as she is.

“Eliza wait,” Arthur calls out, catching up to her in a few strides. It’s been long enough since he’s seen her last for her to be this far along and a baby’s not the only circumstance that’s changed. Her dress is faded and it looks as though her apron won’t ever be quite clean again.

“I don’t want your pity, Arthur Morgan. I knew what stood to happen.”

So did he, he just never quite thought it would. “If I knew, I’d –”

“You’d what? Leave your gang and your freedom to mind me and the baby?”

Eliza has him there. Dutch relies on him more and more these days when Hosea’s unwell and Arthur sure as hell doesn’t know the first thing about being a proper family man.

“How are you faring?” he asks instead.

Eliza huffs, “I ain’t one of the front girls anymore if that’s what you’re asking. They got me working in the kitchen for now but who knows once the baby comes.”

Arthur reaches for his saddlebag, grabbing all of his generous last take.

“Don’t need charity neither.”

“It ain’t. I’m gonna take care of you. Of you both.”

Eliza eyes the money suspiciously, shifting packages in her arms to cautiously take his offering. She drops one in the process; Arthur catches it before it hits the ground.

“I got more back at camp I’ll send along. We’re moving out fast, but I’ll be back as soon as I’m able. Find yourself a place, a real place and I’ll come to you.”

Eliza smiles, but it ain’t like the old ones, far sadder. “Thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur’s head buzzes the whole way back.

“You forgot near half the list, Morgan!” Pearson chews him out. Arthur doesn’t care.

Miss Grimshaw looks about on a tear in Pearson’s defense, but her expression softens when she gets closer. “Mr. Morgan, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Arthur glances around to make sure no one’s in earshot. “I got a girl in a bad way, Miss Grimshaw.”

Her mouth turns into a hard line. “You doing right by her?”

“I aim to. Look, I’ll talk to Dutch and Hosea, but I don’t want this getting around. Not like –”

_Even now, always Mary, damn her._

Miss Grimshaw nods in understanding. “Nobody’s hearing a word from me.”

\----------

_Dear Arthur,_

_You have a son. I have named him Isaac for an uncle who died in Sherman’s army and never knew. He is such a sweet-tempered baby and he has your eyes._

_Mrs. Adams down the road has been a great help but I long to see you. Please come soon._

_Affectionately,_

_Eliza_

“You need me any time soon or can I go?” Arthur asks Dutch.

“Course you’re free to go, son, but sit down and enjoy yourself first.” Dutch pours out glasses of brandy and passes Arthur a cigar.

“Congratulations to Miss Eliza,” Hosea toasts within the privacy of Dutch’s tent.

Arthur’s still working on his cigar when he wanders out, joining John smoking a cigarette. “What are you so smug about, Morgan?”

Arthur hasn’t said anything about Eliza to John, but he’s proven to not be a snitch. More surprising, Arthur counts John as the only one in camp who’s never given him grief about Mary.

Silently he hands over the letter.

“Shit,” John exhales in surprise as he reads. “Weren’t it you who told me not to go stupid over a woman?”

“I’d hope you’re smart enough to know it’s different.”

It takes the better part of the week to reach Eliza. Arthur pushes his horse as much as he can. A quick glance at his reflection in the window proves he is dirt-streaked and disheveled. No amount of flattening his hair is going to save Arthur.

“You the neighbor?” he asks the middle-aged woman who answers the door. It amuses him to wonder how she and Miss Grimshaw would fare in a scrap.

Eliza and the baby could be an illustration in _Harper’s Weekly_ , picturesque as the scene is. Arthur is loath to disrupt it. Absorbed in her son, Eliza looks happier and younger than he’s ever seen her.

“Arthur, you must come meet him.”

The baby is impossibly fragile in Arthur’s hands, hands suited to wrangling horses, cradling rifles, beating men to death, but the infant doesn’t take notice.

Eliza wasn’t wrong, Isaac shares his eyes. It ought to unnerve Arthur, but kin can recognize kin.

Paternal affection, while not foreign to Arthur, is strange. He feared it an ill-fitted suit as it was for Lyle Morgan. It ain’t gonna be that way with Isaac. If Arthur had a word for it, it’s love.

\----------

Visits aren’t often enough and Arthur is a poor correspondent. Dutch lets him go for long stretches, so long as he comes back with tips on banks and stagecoaches.

“Morgan again?” Bill Williamson grouses as Arthur packs up.

“It ain’t exactly fair,” John agrees with him.

Dutch flashes a dangerous look at John. Arthur wonders if Marston’s burgeoning ambitions will be Arthur’s undoing.

Dutch sends the dissatisfied pair in the opposite direction of Arthur. “We’ll have to manufacture you some better excuses soon enough.”

Isaac is a weed, growing by leaps and bounds each time Arthur sees him. Crawling, teething, clinging to the furniture around the house, there’s something new each time.

The day Arthur comes in and Isaac runs to him crying out ‘pa!’ changes him. He doesn’t try to hide the tears as he pries the little boy off his boots to pick him up.

There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Isaac.

It’s only practical Arthur shares Eliza’s bed when he visits. After Isaac’s asleep, Eliza kisses the corner of Arthur’s mouth or runs her hand across his chest. Sometimes Arthur gives in, hiding between her legs to avoid the temptation of losing himself in her hair. Eliza’s face always glows with something Arthur recognizes but cannot feel.

Whatever pleasure he gets from their coupling is always followed by a stab in his gut. He’s suffered knife wounds; he ought to know how it feels. He wishes she knew how cruel he was.

Arthur fashions Isaac a small fishing rod for his fourth birthday. Eliza packs a picnic basket for their outing; Isaac takes to fishing immediately.

“Come get your dinner!”

“Not yet momma, I’m gonna catch you a fish!”

“Not with all that hollering you ain’t,” Arthur points out as he joins Eliza on the blanket.

“It’s amazing how happy you’ve made him with that gift,” Eliza marvels.

Arthur doesn’t meet her eye, “Anything I can get you?”

Eliza laughs, as if it’s a ridiculous question. “I have him, I’m quite content, Arthur.”

It ain’t fair, her loving him as he cannot. Arthur found out a long time ago he weren’t suited to marriage, but maybe –

Maybe they wouldn’t have to change anything but maybe next time comes ‘round, he’ll bring a ring along too. She ought to be happy at least.

\----------

No letters make Arthur curious. Eliza is typically never shy with missives on Isaac’s progress.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” Arthur promises Dutch, unable to shake the prickle at his neck that makes his hair stand on end.

Nothing prepares him for the two fresh graves beside the house. The inside of Arthur’s chest must be carved out because he cannot feel his heart pumping blood any more. He sits between Isaac and Eliza ‘til the sky turns to dusk.

Mrs. Adams wears black head-to-toe, a color Arthur can never wear for them, not even an armband.

“You did this,” she spits at him. “Folk knew you sent money and figured she was worth robbing. You _ruined_ her.”

Dully, “You’ll hear no argument from me on that front, Mrs. Adams.”

Weak fools brag about kills at saloons. Arthur rides for three days straight ‘til he finds the bastard.

The man – if he could be called that, doesn’t even give Arthur the satisfaction of landing hard blows back. Arthur wishes he was as black and blue as his opponent when he roots through his pockets to see what Isaac and Eliza died for.

 _Ten dollars. That’s all. Ten measly dollars._ Arthur throws the bills back in the man’s face before shooting him square between the eyes. He has to ride like hell to escape the law hot on his heels.

He doesn’t want to go back to camp. He doesn’t want to be anywhere at all.

Something spooks his horse and for the first time since he was a kid, Arthur is thrown, hitting his head hard against the dirt road. Certain he’s not concussed; Arthur sits up to watch a doe and fawn disappear into the tree line.

He hobbles to his feet, pressing his face to the horse’s flank, crying ‘til there’s nothing left. He mounts up, wipes his nose on his sleeve, and takes the long road home.

All’s quiet when Arthur gets in late, Hosea the only one still by the campfire. “You look like hell, son, everything alright?”

“They’re dead.” It’s all Arthur can manage. It’s all there is to say.

Hosea’s mouth twists into something sympathetic, which Arthur cannot bear. Hosea stands to pat Arthur on the shoulder. “You’ll be okay. Not now, but one day.”

Arthur takes a chair and sits at the edge of camp, staring into the dark, staring into nothing. It’s getting close to morning, though the sun’s not up over the mountains yet. Arthur hears someone approach but can’t be bothered to turn around.

“Here,” Miss Grimshaw hands him a mug of coffee and a cigarette.

He hates that she knows.

“Thank you kindly, Miss Grimshaw,” he croaks.

“Of course, Arthur. And for goodness sake, it’s Susan.”

No one says a thing about them to Arthur again.

\----------

Last thing the Van der Linde gang needs is another girl. Karen’s already driving Susan to an early grave and they don’t have so much laundry as to need her.

“Thief _and_ a prostitute,” Uncle declares as if he’s purchased a prize filly.

Arthur rolls his eyes, but Dutch could use another distraction. He’s always morose without a companion. Still, Arthur watches Abigail Roberts stride through the camp with purpose.

All he sees are ghosts.

**Author's Note:**

> I played RDR2 and Arthur Morgan made me cry more than any video game protagonist probably?
> 
> Anyway, gotta put my 6 years of being the curatorial department for an 1890s house museum to good use.


End file.
